Deception
by Hawkins437
Summary: His orders were haunting him for weeks, interfering with his duties and personal life. His wife—Lord Wrath—understands that something is amiss. An alternative take on the Transponder Station incident. One-shot.


She wakes to an empty bed, though the smell of his cologne still permeates the air of their quarters, clinging to the pillow next to her. Gone is the pile of his neatly folded uniform. That negates a simple visit to the refresher. It is as she fears then. He'd grown sleepless lately, casting a shadow of worry upon her usually singular, focused mind.

The warrior puts on a dressing gown—a frivolity she rarely allows herself—and leaves for the bridge. Where else would she find a man so desperately workaholic that he'd neglect his own rest.

She finds him at the helm, slouched in the pilot's seat, intently studying a datapad. It amuses her to catch him in a moment of less than a complete image of propriety—his slumped shoulders in sharp contrast to his usual firm, military posture. Heavy circles ring his eyes and his chin is covered with a light stubble he has not yet shaved. He anxiously runs his free hand through his hair—still dishevelled, in spite of being already dressed in his carefully pressed uniform. By all accounts, it's still too early for his usual morning routine.

"Trouble sleeping?" she says.

The voice startles him as he browses his datapad, reviewing mission reports from their previous assignments. His eyes shift to the woman standing in the doorway of the bridge, her orange bloodshot eyes studying him intently. The very object of his worries.

He swallows. "Yes… my lord."

His nervousness is palpable both through the Force and in the quiver of his lower lip. He appears troubled, his anxiety unbecoming. His fingers fiddle with the datapad even as he keeps his gaze on her.

The warrior's initial instinct, of course, is to clear the air lest it combusts around them.

"I have a name." she says. "You've used it often—when we are alone, in our quarters."

She is teasing him, the smirk crowning her lips speaks volumes. Normally, he would offer her a disapproving glance and answer her witticisms with a sardonic remark of his own. But not in this moment.

His formality, the lack of a wry response assures her that he is truly out of his element.

She folds her arms across her chest, discerning that he wishes to speak to Lord Wrath his _superior_, not Lord Wrath his _wife_. Personalities that he has somehow managed to keep separate still.

She sighs, "Speak your mind, Quinn."

He rises from the pilot's seat and begins pacing the bridge, hands clasped firmly behind his back.

"My lord, the time of your final confrontation with Darth Baras is imminent. At a time like this, I think it prudent to remind you why he had me stationed on your ship in the first place. As you know, Darth Baras holds my career, indeed my very life, in his hands. Indebted as I am to him, I'll be forced to act out his whims, or face punishment."

His voice falls silent, processing, in his mind, how to break to his own wife the likely truth behind his assignment.

"He will ask me to kill you."

The warrior frowns, the suspicion raking prominent wrinkles on her nose. "Will he, or has he already done so?"

The way his eyes fixate on anything but her face answers the question for him.

"I'm afraid the martial law over Corellia is a ruse." he admits. "He would have me lure you in and dispose of you. He has already allocated the resources required. I have sabotaged his efforts to the best of my ability, but I cannot defy him openly."

Her frown deepens, her eyes narrowing to seething slits. "Did he threaten you?"

"Worse, my lord." he breathes, finally finding the nerve to meet her eyes again. "He threatened _you_."

The tortures Darth Baras would concoct for her, a failed apprentice—_his wife_—had haunted him for weeks. He could not bear to witness such pain inflicted upon her. Even if the only mercy were to be her assassin. He finds some relief in confining the secret orders to her, but not comfort.

Amusement, of all things, sparks in her eyes, soon exchanged for rage.

Amusement that Malavai Quinn would consider a threat against _her_ life the greater offence. Rage that Darth Baras had the audacity to threaten the man she had claimed for herself through marriage.

"The slinking son of a womp rat!" she curses. Her fingers at once moving to her hips—an automated move—to clutch the lightsabers that aren't there. "It's not that he continues to try to kill me that fuels my rage. He dared threaten my husband. It is imperative that I destroy him."

A sense of smugness settles in at her words, one that manifests itself in the form of a subtle smile. His restraint would allow no more. Still, to openly hear her say she values him so deeply is a rarity he simply must secure with an assurance: "My lord, I hope that you know I would never raise a hand against you under any other circumstance."

"I do." she confirms amusedly. "Otherwise you would be picking it severed off the floor."

Her gruff humour doesn't even make him flinch—not after all the time they've spent getting to know each other. Not when he wasn't entirely sure if she was merely joking.

She takes a moment to weigh their options. She sees an advantage in keeping Baras in the dark, an opportunity for humiliation of the Darth in playing along with his fantasies. Acting out her husband's betrayal would give her a reason to challenge Baras outside the Emperor's orders, it would make the resentment personal. Even those of the Dark Council that did not believe her to be the Wrath would not deny her the duel. He'd have no choice but to face her openly.

The man he thought to mould into a weapon against her would be the means to his destruction. How very poetic.

Still, she can't help but wonder how long have Baras's orders been eating away at Quinn's mind. She remembers his migraines; the long, sleepless nights and sudden bouts of nausea, the lack of appetite for both food and sex. He claimed it was a simple fever, nothing a stim couldn't fix. Once or twice he jokingly insinuated that his age might be starting to catch up on him. It must have been weeks.

Her expression softens momentarily, _commander _giving way to _wife. _"You made the wise choice, Malavai."

He is not so sure. Strategically, he'd just floundered into uncertainty. He was putting his career, his life at jeopardy. There was no guarantee she would succeed at overthrowing Darth Baras; she lacked the support of the Dark Council and his intelligence network, for one. Still, he felt obliged to follow her into the oblivion itself, if need be.

She was the love of his life—as apprehensive as he tended to be about exhibiting emotion. Much of that anxiety came from the unequal footing their relationship entailed. She was a Sith—powerful, destined for leadership, and he—a disgraced officer, ten years her senior. He was certainly no catch.

But she chose him nonetheless, became his wife; he could no less than to stand at her side.

"Of course, my lord." he assures himself more than her. "I began my service on this ship as his loyal servant, true, but my loyalties have since changed. I am yours, body and mind."

A smile—delighted, suggestive—crosses her lips, "I have no doubts, husband."

He had just proven how committed to her his mind really was. She would test the commitment of his _body_ later.

A flicker and the familiarity is gone, as her voice assumes the commanding tone once more: "Prepare to dock with the Transponder Station as planned, Captain."

"My lord?" he looks at her quizzically.

"If Baras craves entertainment so badly, then we'll put on a convincing show."

* * *

**A/N:** _I guess we've all at one point had that "wtf Malavai" moment before arriving on Corellia, especially with romanced (and married!) female characters. Ultimately though, I imagined my character in his shoes and forgave him in the spirit of my Dragon Age: Origins Warden's quote "Some of my best friends have wanted me dead."_


End file.
